So I’m out in a gay club, dancing the night away in my best new loafers. I’ve a wine in my right hand but no man in my left. Someone get the violins out. It’s Saturday night and the only love in my life is Sauvignon Blanc from the Marlborough estate. But as if Paul Daniel’s just waved his magic wand, a potential date is suddenly upon me like a fly on sh*t.
The music is loud and as my friends will inform you, my hearing is not the best. Many a time I have the television on so loud, the neighbours from two doors down bang away on my front door. Anyway, I struggle to hear this potential beau’s name but my inhibitions have been lost in a bottle of Blossom Hill. So I go straight in for a kiss.
And in the profound words of Cher, it really is in his kiss. Instantly I feel a connection and I swoon. Maybe my long line of frog kissing is finally over, I excitedly decide. From this moment on, we spend the entire evening locked lipped and it reiterates my feelings that no more amphibians may cross my luscious lips.
The end of the evening draws near and I sense mini me getting a little aroused. He thinks he’s going to be getting some action from this nameless man. My future beau walks to his taxi and I presumptuously attempt to join him inside the taxi. But to mine and minime’s dismay, he puts his hand up to signal no entry. Instead he slips me his phone number on a piece of paper. Not what I’d hoped he’d be slipping me tonight.
I wake up with a start and quickly roll over, anticipating a Sunday morning session. My hopes are instantly dashed when my memory kicks in and I remember I ended up in bed alone. I pick my phone up, hazy eyed. I have a text from an unknown number. It’s from a bloke called Simon. Oh my god, so that was his name! The stark realisation hits me that my last attempt at romance was with that tosser from Mulberry. Also called Simon. Not a good omen but I remind myself of my religious upbringing and I promise not to judge a man by his name.
We arrange a date for the following and he suggests a restaurant in Uxbridge, close to where he lives. Judgmental Mark kicks in and I decide he doesn’t have a lot going for him. One, his name is Simon and two, he lives in Uxbridge. But the memory of my Christian upbringing kicks in again, I will not sit in judgment.
The following evening arrives and I find myself with sweaty palms and shallow breathing to deal with. I don’t know what I’m more nervous about, being in Uxbridge town centre or going on a date. And then something hits me like a wet cod around my boat race. I haven’t a clue what Simon looks like as I was so intoxicated, that part of my memory seems to have been erased by Sauvignon.
Fingers crossed he’s not a dog. I walk in and I see a figure stand and wave. I’m no intellectual giant but I conclude this must be him. Not bad on the eye. I wouldn’t kick him out of bed.
The conversation flows between us but unfortunately for my date, so is the Sauvignon blanc. As each glass glides down, my voice raises a decibel. We laugh, we talk, we eat. I really think it’s gone well. This is my future prince. Frogs are a distant memory. Boy, am I delusional. As I ask, “when shall we see each other next?”, he replies deadpan, “once was enough!”
Open mouthed, I get deserted by him at the table. Note to self, avoid Simons.
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